


Holiday ficlets

by stillscape



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holiday ficlets, one set in the mysterious S3 Christmas and one in S4. Diaphenia and ashisfriendly are beautiful and they're organized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Or a Partridge In a Pear Tree?

Ben stared at the slip of paper on his desk. He’d unfolded and refolded it a number of times now, as though either eliminating the center crease or hiding the energetic scrawl would help him come to terms with the fact that he was Leslie’s Secret Santa.

 

Not that he minded having an excuse to buy her a gift. Quite the opposite. This slip of paper wasn’t just an excuse to buy her a gift; it _compelled_ him to buy her one.

 

But what? What gift said _I’m ridiculously attracted to you and I would ask you out in a heartbeat if we were allowed to date, so Merry Christmas and please don’t stand under any mistletoe because I’m not sure I can resist the temptation?_ What gift said all those things while remaining work-appropriate and costing less than $20?

 

He stopped by the Parks department that afternoon, to drop off some paperwork that did not technically need to be dropped off until next week, and found her alone at her desk, enveloped in a pleasant gingerbread scent.

 

“Oh, good!” Leslie said, brightening as soon as he appeared in the doorway. “I need your opinion on something very important.”

 

“Okay.”

 

A large platter of cookies was on the corner of her desk, and she nodded her head at it.

 

“Everyone else has been useless,” she told him. “Here. I’m trying new gingerbread cookie recipes. Tell me what you think.”

 

He was going to reach for the closest cookie, but she shot out a hand to stop him. Her fingers closed firmly around his forearm, and he couldn’t help but stare at her hand, and the way his shirt’s plaid fabric wrinkled under it.

 

“Sorry,” Ben said, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, and he definitely wasn’t sorry. “I thought you wanted—”

 

Leslie let go. “I do. But you have to eat the Ben ones. Give me three seconds…”

 

She bustled a bit, and three seconds later, she handed him a plate with two owl cookies on it. Both were iced to be wearing plaid shirts and skinny ties.

 

“You made a cookie owl version of me?”

 

“Of everyone,” she said, pointing at another cookie, one that was wearing pink floral scrubs or a cardigan or something. “See? The Ann owls came out prettiest, I think. But Ann’s at the hospital all day so I haven’t been able to show her yet.”

 

Ben disagreed; the owl cookies iced with little blue blazers and polka-dot shirts were clearly prettiest. He bit off one of his own owl’s heads to stop himself from volunteering that information.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“It’s good.” He swallowed. “I thought you said you made everyone.”

 

“Well, Andy and Ron ate all of theirs already. Tom took his outside so he could Instagram them in natural light, so of course he got attacked by a raccoon…” She shuddered. “Jerry dropped his cookies on the floor—” she gestured towards a trash can, where Ben could see a number of gingerbread pieces—“and April turned hers into a weird cookie army that got defeated by a tidal wave caused by the Evil Milk Army. And I have no idea what happened to Donna’s.”

 

“That sounds like a production.”

 

“It was,” she sighed. “Which is why I need your opinion.”

 

“They’re really good.” Hadn’t he already said that? “Did you want, like...an opinion on flavor or something?”

 

“Yes. Absolutely.”

 

But the cookie was pretty much perfect, so he couldn’t think of anything to say, other than a feeble “The frosting is also good?”

 

“You’re no help either,” she muttered. “Well, here. This plate is for Chris. I only made him one. Do you think he’ll even eat that, if you take it to him?”

 

A single gingerbread owl, wearing iced bike shorts, stared unblinkingly at Ben. He fought a sudden urge to bite its little sugary eyes off so it couldn’t see anything.

 

“That depends,” he said. “How much sugar is in the icing?”

 

“Enough.”

 

She had a tiny gingerbread crumb on the lapel of her blazer, and without thinking, Ben set the Chris owl on the table so he could brush it off.

 

Leslie looked down at his fingers, then up at his face. Her shoulders stiffened, and she bit her lip.

 

Back at his desk, the Chris cookie safely delivered though it might never be eaten, Ben stared at the AltaVista homepage, then blinked twice and switched to Google. His fingers momentarily played over the tin of plaid cookies he’d been sent away with.

 

He buried his head in his hands, which smelled like gingerbread and sugar.

 

A couple of weeks later, Leslie unwrapped a tiny blue polka dot plush owl, ran her thumb over its black button eyes, and smiled. “Thank you, Santa.” She looked up and saw Ben, who had insinuated himself in the doorframe between the main room and her office. Clearly she’d figured out the secret behind her Santa.

 

Then her face faltered, and her eyes flicked upwards. Ben followed her gaze.

 

The pit of his stomach had barely begun to sink when he found himself enveloped in a sweaty hug, with a scraggly beard pressed to his forehead.

 

“Aw! Roomie!”

 

Andy’s breath smelled, horribly, like fruitcake mixed with Easy Cheese. Ben took a step back, or tried to. Andy’s grip was awfully tight.

 

“I wasn’t standing under the mistletoe on _purpose_ ,” Ben muttered.

 

“But you were standing under it,” said Andy, “and also, I drew your name for Secret Santa but I couldn’t buy you a gift because I do not technically have any money—”

 

“Andy, we have to pay the power bill next week—”

 

“—so this hug and kiss are your present. Merry Christmas, Ben!”

 

“Okay,” Ben wheezed. “Uh. Merry Christmas.”

 

“Ugh. Babe, don’t make out with Ben. He’s terrible at it.”

 

Andy laughed. “You don’t know that.”

 

“I don’t have to make out with Ben to know he’s terrible at it,” said April. She shot a glance at Leslie. “You can just tell. Right, Leslie?”

 

Leslie’s cheeks turned slightly pink, but she said nothing.

 

She didn’t put the polka dot owl in her office. At least, Ben never saw it there. Its absence disappointed him, and he hoped Leslie hadn’t decided not to display it because it reminded her that April had insisted he wasn’t good at kissing.

 

(He was good at it. He knew that much about himself.)

 

(Although he was much more out of practice than he would have preferred.)

 

Several months later, he met the polka dot owl again. It was perched on the windowsill in Leslie’s bedroom.

 

“She reminds me of you,” Leslie said. Her voice was soft and a little shy, adorably so considering they’d just slept together. What was left to be shy about?

 

“It looks more like you. Especially if it’s a she.”

 

Leslie rolled sideways, wrapping herself around him, and he wondered when it would be appropriate to start shopping for a companion owl.

 

***


	2. Counting Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epistolary fic. Well...email.

***

Ten. The first round of holiday baking. The weekend after Thanksgiving. I always do a batch of gingerbread men to take to the office on Monday. 

...can I do that this year? Since I’m suspended? Chris will let me in the building to give everyone cookies, right? 

***

I have no idea whether Chris will let you in the building. Why don’t you just give them to Ann, and she can take them in?

Okay. Ten? I don’t think I have ten holiday traditions.

***

Because I always do it! It’s a tradition. And you said you’d do ten. You negotiated very hard for ten. 

***

Yeah, because I definitely don’t have the twenty-five you wanted. And now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t come up with ten. You realize Christmas was basically the most stressful thing that ever happened when I was a kid, right? Every year since my parents got divorced. 

***

Ben, come on. Tell me your ten favorite holiday traditions. Or not even your favorite. Just tell me ten. Or--no. Okay. Do five. You just have to do five. Five happy ones. Because that sucks. It really sucks not having happy holidays. So you think of five good ones. What else are you doing at home all day, anyway?

Nine. I put my Christmas trees up the first full weekend in December, so they’ll stay fresh. The one in the living room I get from the same guy every year. He sells trees in the empty corner lot by the elementary school. He’s been there 40 years. My dad and I used to go together. The first year after he died, Mom just wanted to get a fake tree, but I wanted a real one, so I walked three miles there and back with my wagon and got the smallest tree on the lot. And the second tree I always cut down with Ron. He’s got a perfect little Christmas tree patch in the woods near his cabin. I probably shouldn’t tell you any more about it or he might come after one of us with an ax. 

***

I’m writing cover letters. Hey, do you know anything about this Barney Varmn guy? He’s the contact on this one accounting job...his name sounds really familiar. 

Anyway. 5. The weekend after Thanksgiving, my parents separately call me and my siblings to pointedly ask which of them we’re spending Christmas with this year. Usually by three in the afternoon, everyone’s threatening never to talk to anybody else ever again. The happy part is that after dinner, Henry, Steph and I get on a conference call and get drunk together. 

...wait, Christmas trees? You can fit more than one tree in your house? Where? 

***

You don’t have any traditions involving, I don’t know, grandparents? Cookies? Presents?

Barney teaches the accounting classes for the community center. You probably saw his name in spreadsheets somewhere. 

***

4\. Presents. Every year since I was 18, at least one person has gotten me a set of ice cube trays. Sometimes it’s a member of my family. Sometimes they come anonymously from addresses in Partridge I don’t recognize. But there’s always at least one. Once someone sent a tray stuffed full of clown noses. 

***

That’s a horrible tradition. 

Eight: the Pawnee Follies! They’re going to suck this year because it’s Sewage’s turn. But it’ll be a fun night anyway. Although, I should probably warn you, they’re going to change all the lyrics of all the songs to be about plumbing. But then the Parks department goes out for hot chocolate afterwards. Sometimes that’s the best part. We got to do the Follies the year before you came to Pawnee, and they were awesome. I wonder if we have that on videotape anywhere...maybe April knows. I’ll ask her. 

***

3\. Okay, this one’s not so bad. Steph and I always used to marathon those Rankin-Bass specials, the stop-motion ones. They’re kind of terrible, but they’re also really fascinating--all those little parts moving around, you know? It’s such an intricate process. We always used to say we were going to make one of our own. One year we started doing a version with Legos, but then my dad made us stop because he needed the camera to tape Henry’s hockey game. 

***

Oh, I always watch those too! They are terrible. But I watch them anyway. That’s my seventh tradition, all the specials. I mean, I like the longer movies too, like _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , but who has time to watch that every year? Usually I put it on and then forget to watch half of it because I’m embroidering ornaments or something. Charlie Brown is better, though. I get kind of choked up when they make the tree perfect. Is that embarrassing? 

***

No. It’s cute.

***

Six: Mom and I drive up to Indy to go shopping and to look at the Christmas lights around the Capitol building. We always have lunch at the same place, and we always order the same thing, except for the year she decided we should both be cutting down on sugar and white flour and she made us both get salads. That was kind of a crappy Christmas overall, come to think of it. I had just gotten dumped…

***

...I seriously can’t think of any more traditions. Not even bad ones.

I sent in an application for the accounting firm. 

***

Did they call to schedule an interview yet?

***

No. It’s only been twenty minutes.

***

Six: William Howard Taft the Christmas Walrus. My dad got him for me when I was little. He’s a walrus in a scarf and hat. Usually he’s just in the corner with the other stuffed animals, but for Christmas, I put him on the bed. 

***

There wasn’t a walrus on your bed when I was over there last night.

***

Well, no, of course not. I moved him so you’d have room. He’s a pretty big walrus. 

*** 

That makes a weird kind of sense.

***

He’s named William Howard Taft for a reason, Ben.

*** 

 

***

Ben?

***

 

___

Leslie opened the front door, stood motionless for a few seconds, and then threw her arms around Ben’s neck. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you wanted the rest of the day to work on job applications.” 

“I’m starting a new holiday tradition,” he said. 

A smile drifted over her face. “How do you know I don’t already do it? I have another forty-three traditions I never told you about.” 

“Do they involve Christmas picnics with hot chocolate?” 

“Christmas picnics?” She spun through her mental binder of holiday traditions. There was the Pawnee Goddess Holiday Baking Spectacular, but that always happened inside, and the annual First Snowfall Stroll, but that never involved sitting. So she shook her head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Well--I mean, you’ve already decorated the parks, I figured we should take advantage--” Ben jerked his head towards his car-- “get your coat. Let’s go.” 

She leaned past Ben, trying to peek into his car. There was a basket in there, she thought, and--

“Warm blankets, hot chocolate, a poinsettia--” 

“A poinsettia?” 

“Well, flowers. You know.” 

“A Christmas picnic,” Leslie mused. The cold had started her shivering, but her insides felt warm. “Did you get cookies?” 

“Um, no. I seem to remember way too many cookies in your house already.” 

“True,” she said, darting back inside to get her coat. “Cookies are part of tradition number fourteen, you know. And twenty-two. And the first one I told you this morning, of course.”

“And fruitcake?” 

Leslie stopped dead in her tracks. 

“Kidding!” Ben said, hastily placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m kidding. I know how you feel about fruit.” 

***


End file.
